


Old Dog, New Tricks

by Myrtle



Category: BoJack Horseman
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Halloween, Post-Canon, Therapy, Time Travel Fix-It, inspired by Episode: s05e08 Mr. Peanutbutter's Boos, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28147707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrtle/pseuds/Myrtle
Summary: "I mean, what’s not to like? A couple of swinging bachelors, all the virgin cider you can drink…this is going to be the best Halloween ever!”BoJack just rolls his eyes, but that’s okay. Mr. Peanutbutter’s got all night to win him over.
Relationships: BoJack Horseman & Mr. Peanutbutter, Mr. Peanutbutter & all his exes, past Mr. Peanutbutter/Diane Nguyen - Relationship
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Old Dog, New Tricks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThatScottishShipper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatScottishShipper/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, recipient! I hope you enjoy!

_“Sounds like you two had quite a dream!”_

_“It_ wasn’t _a dream, Mister Peanutbutter! We really just repeated Halloween thirteen times!”_

_“Yeah, and Zelda has the cavities to prove it!”_

_“Hmm, if you say so. Did you at least learn something from all this?”_

_“Well…I guess I learned that it’s important to think about what effect your actions will have on other people.”_

_“And I guess_ I _learned that it’s okay to loosen up and have fun once in a while.”_

_“Hey, if you two learned all that, I’d say it was all worth it! In fact, I think you could say this was the best Halloween ever!”_

“Rewatching the ol’ greatest hits, eh? I know that game.”

Even now, months after BoJack moved in, Mr. Peanutbutter still gets a little thrill of excitement every time he hears him coming down the stairs into his living room. _Their_ living room! His buddy BoJack! Living _here!_

“TV, off,” he says. He doesn’t need to watch the end credits anyway. He twists around on the couch to catch BoJack coming into the living room, disappointed to see him still in his regular clothes. “It’s a classic! We invented the do-over episode, you know.”

“Really? _Mr. Peanutbutter’s House_ invented it? Not a little movie called _Groundhog Day?”_

“Oh, is _that_ what _Groundhog Day’s_ about? Never seen it, myself. I just figured it was Gerbil Murray trying to keep a groundhog away from his lawn. Well, if we didn’t invent it, we certainly perfected it.”

“Uh-huh. Water filter, filtrate.”

“Anyway, speaking of getting into the Halloween spirit—”

“We weren’t.”

“—where’s your costume? Only a few hours til party time!”

BoJack snorts as he comes back into the living room. “I’ve never once been prepared with a costume for this thing. Why break tradition now? Besides, you’re not exactly pulling out all the stops in that department. Going as yourself in the 90s? Is that really the best you can do?”

Mr. Peanutbutter laughs. “What are you talking about? I’m not going as myself.” He flings his arms out, showing off the awesome printed button-down. “I’m going as Mister Peanutbutter!”

There is a moment of silence as BoJack stares at him over his glass of water. “Say what now?”

“I said, I’m not going as myself,” he repeats. Maybe BoJack is going hard of hearing. They are getting older, after all. “I’m going as—”

“No, I—that wasn’t literal, dammit. I meant, you _are_ Mr. Peanutbutter. How is that not going as yourself?”

“Right, I’m _Mr._ Peanutbutter. I’m going as _Mister_ Peanutbutter, my character on the show. Completely different!”

“You realize you’re just saying the same name twice, right?”

Mr. Peanutbutter stares at him in confusion for a moment, then laughs. “Oh, I see what’s happening here. There’s a subtle difference in pronunciation, but if you’re not familiar with dog naming traditions I guess it’s easy to miss. See, I’m _Mr._ Peanutbutter—M, R, period. My character was _Mister_ Peanutbutter—M, I, S, T, E, R. Just keep listening, you’ll get it eventually. Anyway, he’s completely different from me, obviously. I mean, for one thing, Mister Peanutbutter is a breakdancing instructor, while I only practice the art of breakdancing as an amateur.”

“…Right.”

“Anyway, I bet you’re just jealous that my old costume still fits me perfectly!” He’s been trying to get BoJack to come to the gym with him for months now, with no success—maybe teasing will do it.

“I am not—I’ll have you know my _Horsin’ Around_ costume _absolutely_ would still fit me, I—I just can’t believe you couldn’t come up with a more creative idea than pulling your old TV costume out of storage.”

“Alright, so it isn’t the most original. It _is_ the first time in twenty-five years I’m not doing a couples costume.”

He says it without really thinking about it, but there’s a weird pause, the words hanging heavy in the air. “Oh,” BoJack says quietly, after a time. “I guess it is. Fair enough, I…sorry.”

Prison didn’t turn BoJack into a different person, really. Interact with him for five minutes and that’s obvious. But over the past few months, Mr. Peanutbutter has noticed that sometimes, once in a while, there’s this other side of him that comes out. Quieter, more serious…nicer, even. He’s come to think of that guy as New BoJack.

And right now? The guy who’s looking at him all sincere and penetrating, like he can see right through him? That’s pure New BoJack.

He doesn’t _want_ New BoJack now, though. He doesn’t want BoJack looking at him like that, asking about what it’s like to be single for the first time in twenty-five years, making him think about what he’ll do at the party tonight without a girlfriend or wife by his side. He’s been through all that already with Dr. Maria, and it’s fine, it’s _fine._ He doesn’t need to talk about it more with BoJack when he’s busy getting excited about his favorite party of the year.

So he shrugs and laughs it off. “When it comes to thinking up my own costumes, was I briefly on CBS starring Stockard Channing, Ty Burrell, and the guy from that one episode of _Law & Order: SVU? _Because I am _out of practice!”_

“Well, what did you go as last year?”

Mr. Peanutbutter smiles softly. “Oh, c’mon. There wasn’t a party last year. You can’t have BoJack’s famous Halloween party without BoJack!”

BoJack looks at him with the slightest hint of a smile, head tilted to the side, and for a moment Mr. Peanutbutter could swear he looks… _grateful?_ But he’s probably just imagining that, because a second later BoJack rolls his eyes and looks away, and New BoJack is gone just as quickly as he appeared.

“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not my party. I hate this party. I never asked for it.”

Mr. Peanutbutter laughs. “I know, buddy.”

“Besides, no one wants to go to a party with me, I’m a pariah.”

“Oh, come on, that’s all ancient history. I’ve heard some very credible rumors you’re in the running for a Forgivie, and that’s nothing to sneeze at!”

“Oh, rumors? Meaning Princess Carolyn told you?”

“Well, yeah. What’s more credible than that?” He gets up and crosses to BoJack, gives him a clap on the shoulder. “Anyway, this is the year I’m gonna change your mind. Everything’s different: new house, we’re roomies, we even have a sign!” He gestures to the banner that was installed that morning, hung above the kitchen:

_HAPPY HALLOWEEN, HOLLYWOOB!_

_YES, HOLLYWOOB WITH A ‘B’, WE MIGHT AS WELL GO WITH IT AT THIS POINT._

BoJack snorts. “I thought you were gonna look for a new sign company.”

“Aw, I keep thinking I should, but then I think, why break tradition now? Anyway, other than that, I’m telling you, it’s like a whole new Halloween! I mean, what’s not to like? A couple of swinging bachelors, all the virgin cider you can drink…this is going to be the best Halloween ever!”

BoJack just rolls his eyes, but that’s okay. Mr. Peanutbutter’s got all night to win him over.

“Okay, but you guys realize that name is dumb, right? Like, it was a joke or something, right, I mean everyone’s just going to keep calling him baby—” Mr. Peanutbutter’s ears perk up as a familiar beat comes thumping through the speakers. “Oh! Hang on, Pedro, while I’m sure you’d love to continue this conversation—”

“No, that’s okay—”

“So sorry, no can do, my public needs me! Hold my cider, would you? I’ll come right back and we’ll pick up right where we left off! Don’t worry, I have many more questions for you!”

And with that, he sadly has to leave Pedro hanging. He can’t let “Do the Peanutbutter” play without leading the dance, after all.

But as he heads toward the living room, where the couches have been pushed against the walls to make room for an as-yet tragically underutilized dance floor, he has to admit there’s something melancholy about it. “Do the Peanutbutter” is properly a partner dance, after all—the whole point was that Mister Peanutbutter wrangled the twins’ stuffy principal into dancing with him so she would learn the joys of breakdancing and not ban it at their school dances—but here he is, entirely without a partner. It’s been bothering him all night, to be honest. Not that he hasn’t had plenty of people to talk to, but, well, it’s _weird,_ being here alone. He keeps looking around for whoever’s supposed to be at his side, wondering if she’s having fun, if he should check in on her, if they’re going to fight. The nervous anticipation of a fight is bad enough, but the empty, sinking feeling, when he remembers he doesn’t _have_ anyone to check in on, that’s even worse.

But so what? He shakes his head, trying to clear out that line of thinking. This is no time for moping, it’s _Halloween._

Besides, he can’t shake the feeling that this party needs…something. _He’s_ having a great time, of course, but…he’s not sure, something feels a little…off?

Maybe it’s the lack of alcohol. It seemed like a no-brainer to Mr. Peanutbutter that this would be a dry party. After all, it’s BoJack’s party, and he doesn’t drink around BoJack, obviously. That just seems rude. (He would never tell BoJack this—he’s not that stupid, he knows BoJack would just make fun of him or yell at him—but he likes to think BoJack has noticed and appreciates it.) And he’s almost always around BoJack now, at least when he’s not on set, so what it amounts to is that he barely drinks at all anymore. Which isn’t a big deal, really. He’s never needed to drink to have fun.

Other people, though. Some of them seemed surprised. Disappointed, even, maybe. There’s been a distinct lack of dancing and laughter and antics, and a noticeable amount of people standing around in corners, looking at each other awkwardly. In which case, it’s his job to help his guests get in the spirit of things. Well, really it’s BoJack’s job and BoJack’s guests—he’s the host, after all. But while BoJack would normally, by this point in the party, be several drinks deep and yelling at anyone who isn’t dancing, right now he’s leaning against a wall in the kitchen, soda in hand, not talking to anyone.

All the more reason Mr. Peanutbutter needs to step up. After all, he already helped with the planning and decorations and invitations. He’s just that good of a friend.

“Come on, folks!” he yells, as the song is gearing up for the first chorus. “Who’s ready to get down to everyone’s favorite novelty song based on a ‘90s sitcom starring someone who is currently in this room?!”

“Our favorite novelty song based on a ‘90s sitcom starring someone who is currently in this room is ‘Do the BoJack,’” D.J. yells back, easy to spot in his Beetlejuice costume. Mr. Peanutbutter can only assume he’s upset that he’s been relieved of his DJ duties this year, replaced by the robot house’s built-in DJ system. Still, he sees BoJack’s ears perk up, and he can’t even be upset at D.J. the former DJ’s clearly wrong opinion.

“Hey, BoJack!” he says as he takes the floor. “Sounds like we have a challenge! What say we settle this with a little dance-off?”

BoJack takes a sip of his soda. “Yeeeah, I’m not gonna do that.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Mr. Peanutbutter says, warming up with a few hip thrusts. “I can’t do the Peanutbutter by myself! It’s a partner breakdance, you know that!” As if to back him up, there’s his twenty-five-years-younger self on the track:

_Come on, kids! Grab a buddy and get ready to break—it—doggy-doggy-DOWN!_

“See? I need you, BoJack! We gotta get these people dancing!”

“Yeah, I’m not eager to break my neck trying to dance like I did when I was twenty.”

“Okay, I hear what you’re saying, buddy. You want me to demonstrate first. Fine, you twisted my arm! I’ll do one round myself to refresh your memory. But I know you’ll join me for that second chorus!”

With that, he launches into the dance, doing his best to compensate for not having a partner. When the windmill handstand gets a few laughs, he thinks, _Yes, it’s working!_ He just has to pump it up a little more. He has to go for it: the double-axel Lutz 360 freeze. It’s never failed him yet.

With the climax of the chorus approaching, he pops into another handstand, legs straight and ready. He’s got this. He pushes off the floor hard and he’s up in the air, twists, spins, tucks his chin and—

And oh shit, the ground is definitely not supposed to be that close—

 _Maybe BoJack was right,_ is all he has time to think before everything goes black.

Dimly, faintly, a voice floats down to him out of the blackness.

“Oh my gosh, honey, are you okay?”

_Diane? She came back…_

But no, that’s not Diane’s voice…it’s…no, how could it be…

He blearily opens his eyes and her face swims above him, and sure enough—

“Katrina?”

“Oh, thank God, you _scared_ me! How do you feel?”

“Katrina…what’s going on? Why…why are you being so nice?”

The face above him laughs nervously. “What are you talking about? I’m always nice to my darling husband in this, the year 1993!” She laughs again. “God, you’ve got me all flustered, I don’t know why I said that. Why would I ever _not_ be nice to you?”

 _Nineteen ninety-…_ Mr. Peanutbutter blinks a few more times and the face comes into focus—unlined skin, brown hair, Blossom hat. He sits up, marveling at how gentle Katrina’s touch is as she helps him. He looks down at himself and there it is: tie-dye shirt, jeans, full hippie getup. Looking around, he can see a Jurassic Park girl looking at him with concern, David Duchovny rolling his eyes in the corner, not to mention the picture window, the HOLLYWOOD sign in the distance…

No doubt about it: this is BoJack’s Halloween party, 1993 edition.

Okay. Okay. So he’s either traveled back in time from 2021 to 1993, or he’s hallucinating. Either way, this is fine. He can handle this.

“What happened?” he hears himself ask.

“Well, you got so excited when ‘Do the BoJack’ came on, you slipped in a puddle of beer and hit your head.”

Huh. He has no memory of that happening in 1993. But he _did_ hit his head in 2021. Strange. He needs some privacy to figure this out. He pushes himself to his feet, ignoring how his head swims.

“Honey? Where are you going?” Katrina calls after him, but he ignores that as he stumbles toward the bathroom. Pushing past a bunch of grapes and a Unabomber, he wrenches the door open and steps into the harsh fluorescent glare of—

—Dr. Maria’s office?

Mr. Peanutbutter leans against the door, his legs feeling weak under him. His nose tells him all he needs to know: that slight antiseptic smell, covered up with plants and hand lotion—unmistakably the smell of therapy. If that weren’t enough, his eyes confirm: the couch where he likes to stretch out, the little side table with tissues and water pitcher and cups, the cheerful posters on the walls, and there, behind the desk, is—

—“J.D. Salinger?!” he yelps.

“Ah, good, you remember me,” J.D. says from where he is seated behind the desk, legs crossed, looking for all the world like he belongs there.

“What…what are you doing in Dr. Maria’s office?”

J.D. shrugs. “You tell me. It’s your hallucination.”

_“Hallucination?”_

“Hallucination, dream sequence, you can call it whatever you like. Either way, I am but a figment of your imagination. So, you tell me what I’m doing here.”

Mr. Peanutbutter stumbles to the couch and lies down. It actually helps, stretching out just like he does with Dr. Maria. He feels a little better already.

“Okay, so it’s my dream sequence, but—why? What’s _happening?_ Why was I in 1993?”

J.D. sighs. “Come on, kid, I thought you were sharper than this. Haven’t you seen _Groundhog Day?”_

“Well, no. Why? Is there a groundhog around I need to get rid of?” He starts to sit up, sniffing in anticipation.

“No, you imbecile. How about the Halloween episode of your own show? What happened in that?”

“Well, Zoe and Zelda had to live Halloween over and over until they learned a valuable lesson about the true meaning of Halloween, which of course is friendship and the joy of sharing safely individually-wrapped candy treats with your sister.” He considers, and sits up straight when it dawns on him. “Oh! Is that what’s happening? I have to live Halloween 1993 over and over until I get it right?”

J.D.'s usual grumpy expression deepens into a scowl. “You think I’d reuse the same cliché plot your show copied from _Groundhog Day?_ I’m J.D. goddamned Salinger, I’m doing my own twist on it.”

“Okay…and what is that?”

“You’ll just have to figure it out, won’t you?”

Mr. Peanutbutter laughs. “Keeping some tricks up your sleeve, eh, J.D.? Alright, fine. But on the show, Zoe and Zelda had to fix their relationship with each other—what do I need to fix?”

“J.D.? That’s Mr. Salinger to you. And I’ll say to you what I said to you two minutes ago: you tell me.”

“Hmm…” Mr. Peanutbutter sits back on the couch and considers, stroking his chin. “What could I have to fix on Halloween 1993…is it that hippie costume? Because, you know, I always thought I could have done better with that one.”

J.D. just stares at him, just like Dr. Maria does when she wants him to keep talking. 

Mr. Peanutbutter laughs. “Wow, you’re good at this! Are you sure you aren’t Dr. Maria in disguise? Okay, okay, something else. But what else is wrong in my life? That has to do with Halloween? I mean, the only things wrong at the party in 2021 were that people weren’t having _quite_ as much fun as they _possibly_ could have because they weren’t drinking, but that’s hardly my fault and everyone’s drinking at the ‘93 party anyway, and that I was— _oh.”_ He goes quiet as the realization sinks in, like a tense little knot in his belly. “That I was alone.”

J.D. just raises an eyebrow, but as soon as he says it, he knows.

“That’s what I have to fix.”

Finally, J.D. leans forward and smiles. “It’s the only great story I’ve never told. I’ve done man versus man, man versus himself, man versus God, Hollywoob stars and celebrities versus knowledge, but man versus his _past?_ Now that’s a story!”

“But—Dr. Maria says you can’t fix the past. All you can do is improve for the future.”

“And do you believe her?”

“Well…she’s much smarter than I am, I mean look at all the degrees she has!” He gestures to the many framed diplomas on the wall behind J.D. “But...”

“But?”

“Hmm…I started going to keep up appearances for the whole face of depression thing, you know? It was all for show. I figured I’d stop when the face of depression thing died down, but I realized, I _liked_ talking to her. So I just kind of kept going, and…” He smiles and shrugs. “Here I am…but if it was all for show, then…I guess that means maybe she isn’t right?”

“What do you want?”

“Well, I want her to be wrong, of course. I _want_ to be able to fix the past. Can I?”

J.D. shrugs. “It’s your hallucination.”

That’s good enough for him. “Okay, so if I’m in 1993, I need to fix things with Katrina, right? But how?” He gets up and starts pacing as he puzzles it out. “Katrina always _used_ to be nice to me. It all went wrong at the first Halloween party, actually, when she got mad at me because…” _Because she didn’t know how to have fun by herself at parties,_ he almost says, but he can hear Dr. Maria in his head. _You can only control your own behavior. Think about what_ you _might have done differently._ “…because I left her alone when I said I wouldn’t. And then Ben Stein and Tim Allen brainwashed her, and after that we were just fighting all the time. Hmmm. So if I don’t abandon her at this party, she’ll stay nice and we can stay together and it’ll all work out?”

J.D. smiles. It’s a weird little smile, hard to read somehow.

“Let’s find out.”

Mr. Peanutbutter takes a breath. “Okay.” He looks around. “Uh…what now?”

J.D. gestures toward the door. “Get out there. What are you still doing here?”

“Oh, right. Uh, bye.” Mr. Peanutbutter opens the door and steps back into 1993. As he closes the door behind him, he looks back, and all he sees through the door is BoJack’s bathroom. _Huh._

The hallway is dark and smoky, throbbing with the sound of grunge. But there’s Katrina, bless her, looking like she’s been waiting anxiously the whole time he was gone. 

“Honey! How are you feeling?”

“Katrina! I feel just fine. Uh, sorry I was gone so long.”

Katrina frowns. “What? You were in there for, like, a minute. Are you sure—”

“Right, of course, of course. Just a test to keep you on your toes! Anyway—”

He freezes. Erica is right there, at the end of the hall, looking terribly lonely. Probably no one wants to talk to her on account of the extra ear, poor thing. He has an overwhelming urge to go to her, but he can remember, so clearly, Katrina begging him not to go talk to Erica. Was that the moment it all went wrong?

He takes a deep breath and tightens his grip around his wife’s waist. “ ‘Anyway,’ what?” she says, looking nervous even as she snuggles in closer to him.

He smiles, reveling in how it feels to have her pressed against him. “Come on. Do you want to meet my friends?”

And she beams, and says, “Of course I do,” and he thinks, _how did I ever let her go?_

They stick together the whole night—he even sits the conga line out—and it’s, well, it’s not so bad, actually. He kind of misses mingling and being the life of the party, sure, but there’s something to be said for having someone by your side. Katrina laughs at all his jokes, and dances with him, and when she goes to get a drink she comes back with one for him too, and it’s just so _nice_ that it’s easy to believe he’s done it, he’s fixed it, things will be good between them now.

Besides, he keeps her well away from Tim Allen and Ben Stein, and that has to be a good thing, right?

In any case, Katrina never loses it and screams at him, and so the party never comes to a screeching halt, and so things truck along until the wee hours. Eventually, he notices Katrina hiding a yawn behind her hand, so he says, “Looks like someone’s getting sleepy. Ready to head out?”

“Do you mind? I don’t want to drag you away from your friends.”

Mr. Peanutbutter thinks about it, and finds that he really doesn’t mind leaving to curl up at home with Katrina. Maybe he’s getting old. “Nah, I’m ready for a little alone time.” He winks, and she giggles and smacks him on the shoulder.

“Okay, thanks. I’m so glad you always know what I want.”

They’re about to head out the door when he is suddenly hit by an overwhelming, urgent need to pee. “Just a second, honey. I’ll be right back.”

“Alright, hurry back,” she says, with a kiss on the cheek.

He makes his way back to the bathroom and goes in—

—to Dr. Maria’s office again?

No. No. He fixed it! He’s supposed to go home with Katrina now! He turns and tries to get back to the party, but the door is stuck, so he tugs on the knob, trying to wrench it open—

“Don’t bother. It won’t open until I want it to.”

He turns, and there’s J.D. again. “What? Why? I fixed it, right? Can’t I go back?”

“What’s the goal here? To live happily ever after in 1993 with Katrina?”

Mr. Peanutbutter considers that. Strangely, his need to use the bathroom has vanished. “Well, no…I guess it’s to get back to the present, and live happily ever after _there._ Uh, then.”

J.D. nods. “Then why would I let you stay in 1993?”

“Alright…so I’ll go back to the present now?”

“Oh, where’s the fun in that? Do you think I’d jump right to the ending without telling the whole story? Don’t you want to know what happens along the way?”

“Okaaay, then when _are_ you sending me to?”

“I think you know how to answer that.”

He sighs. “Let’s find out?”

“Exactly.” J.D. smiles, and gestures at the door. “It’ll be open now.”

He steps through the door—darkened hallway, flashing lights around the corner, the smell of sweaty people. He’s back at the party. But what year is it?

He makes his way to the living room and checks out his reflection in the window. Big, fluffy mane wig, crown… _The Lion King._ Between that and the sweet sound of Ace of Base, it must be 1994. He had wanted, he recalls, Katrina to go as his lion queen, but she’d refused to wear any costume. Maybe this time, he succeeded.

He scans the room for his queen and finds her in the corner, in jeans and a Che Guevara t-shirt. That’s disappointing, but hey, at least she’s got _some_ costume. And she doesn’t have a drink in her hand, that’s a good sign.

She doesn’t exactly look happy, though, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed like that. Well, there’s only one way to find out.

“Hi honey!” He greets her with a peck on the cheek, which she accepts. _So far so good._ “I love the socialist college student costume, so clever! Really playing against type!”

“What? You know it’s not a costume. Don’t mock me.”

“Huh?”

“Huh?” she repeats, acid in her voice. “Come on, can we go now? I hate these things.”

 _Dammit._ What went wrong? Did the timelines get crossed? Is he back in the original 1994? He sighs. “I know, I know, you can’t bear to be seen with us dumb bleeding-heart liberals and our stupid waste-of-time TV shows and useless charities, when we could be contributing productively to the economy—”

She gives him a baffled look. “Are you trying to be funny? Don’t, it’s not a good look on you.”

“Uh, what?”

“You know I hate these things because I hate watching you aristocratic centrist Hollywood millionaires gather in your mansions, thinking you’re _royalty_ up on your _Pride Rock_ —” She grabs the crown off his head and flings it away, ignoring his cries of _It’s just a costume—_ “Wasting money on booze and parties and fucking _swimming pools_ when there are millions of starving people in our own country, let alone—” she stops, takes a deep breath. “God, do I have to spell out the basics of Marxist theory to you _again?_ Because I will, make no—”

“Oh no, you do not have to do that!” Mr. Peanutbutter says hastily. “You know I’m right on board with you, honey!”

Katrina narrows her eyes at him. “I don’t think you are, otherwise you’d agree to sell that hideous monument to capitalism you call a house.”

“Ooookaaay, I’m, uh, gonna go visit the bathroom.”

“You just got back from the bathroom.”

“And I love a good sequel!” He laughs, slightly hysterically. “I’ll be right back! Love you!” he calls over his shoulder as he makes his escape. 

“God, J.D.,” he says as he enters the cool, bright, quiet sanctuary of formerly-Dr.-Maria’s-office. “You were right, I really can’t assume that doing better at the party will fix things. I’m gonna have to try again…” He flings himself onto the couch and looks up. “ _Todd?_ What are you doing here?!”

Todd shrugs, leaning back in Dr. Maria’s chair, feet propped up on her desk. “What am I ever doing anywhere?”

He laughs. “I certainly don’t know. But since you’re here, you might as well help me, right? Let me fill you in.”

“Oh, it’s fine.” Todd waves a hand. “I don’t know how I got here, but I do know what’s going on.”

“Oh, so you know that I’ve been sent by J.D. Salinger into a maybe-hallucination, maybe-dream in which I have to prevent myself from being alone at the 2021 Halloween party by repairing the mistakes I’ve made at previous Halloween parties?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that although I fixed my mistake at the original Halloween party and avoided abandoning Katrina, all _that_ did was to somehow, through an unclear chain of events, turn her into a mean person obsessed with leftist politics rather than a mean person obsessed with rightist politics?”

“Yep!”

“And you’re now going to help me figure out how to fix things with Katrina the _right_ way, so she’ll be a normal person and love me and stay with me forever?”

Todd frowns. “Uh…about that…” He takes his feet off the desk and sits up, looking much more like a proper therapist, if proper therapists commonly wore hoodies and beanies to the office. “Look, Mr. Peanutbutter, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that if a relationship doesn’t work out the first time around, or the second time around, there’s no use going for a third time. Sometimes you’re just incompatible! And I know what you’re thinking: _Oh, I’ll just build her a sex robot to take care of her bedroom needs, and then the rest of the relationship will be perfect._ Don’t do it! Trust me, you do _not_ want a sex robot in the mix. They don’t make good CEOs, it’s a harassment lawsuit waiting to happen!”

Mr. Peanutbutter has to laugh. “I can’t say I was thinking that, buddy, but thank you for the advice, I’ll keep it in mind! I certainly wouldn’t want PB Livin’ to be stymied by any harassment lawsuits. But if Katrina is a lost cause…does that mean my best chance is Jessica?”

Todd shrugs. “What happened with her?”

“Well, I guess it all went wrong at the first Halloween party I took her to. That was in 2004. I was dressed as a giant notebook, you see—it was supposed to be a couples costume…”

“Of course,” Todd says. “She must have been a pen?”

“That’s what _I_ thought!” Mr. Peanutbutter is so excited he gets up and starts pacing. “She didn’t get it, though—anyway, she has this fear of mummies, like a _crippling_ fear of mummies, like to a degree that’s honestly kind of weird for a full-grown woman. And BoJack, for reasons that I’ve never totally understood, somehow ended up wrapped in toilet paper, staggering around like a mummy.” He stops and laughs. “You know, when I lay it all out like this, it sounds pretty ridiculous! I mean, where did BoJack even get that much toilet paper?”

“Uh…” Todd makes a weird sort of gulping sound. “Don’t worry about it! Ha, ha! I mean, where does anyone get anything?”

Mr. Peanutbutter laughs. “Too true. Oh Todd, what would I do without your pearls of wisdom? Anyway, I had promised to keep any mummies away from Jessica, and I saw BoJack headed right towards her. I tried to warn her, but they were out on the balcony, and I couldn’t get through the door! On account of I was wearing this big notebook costume!”

Todd blinks at him. “You…couldn’t get through the door?”

“Yeah! Picture the notebook costume: it’s like this wide.” He hold his arms out straight at his sides to show him. “And the door is, y’know, a normal sized door. There’s no way I could fit through!”

“Why didn’t you just, uh…go through sideways?”

Mr. Peanutbutter stares at him, baffled. “Sideways?”

“Yeah, like…” Todd gets up and moves his chair so it’s a foot or two away from the desk. He holds his arms straight out at his sides. Then he—Mr. Peanutbutter can hardly believe his eyes—he _turns sideways,_ keeps his arms straight, and walks right in between the chair and the desk, like it’s nothing!

Mr. Peanutbutter falls back on the couch in astonishment. “Todd, you diabolical genius! I knew there was a reason I made you a central part of the ol’ PB Livin’ brain trust! How did you come up with that?!”

“Uh, I just…did it?”

Mr. Peanutbutter laughs and shakes his head. “Humble as ever. That’s what I like about you, Todd. Always one of the little people. Now tell me.” He leans forward. “Can you teach me this walking-through-a-door-sideways technique? Or is it already patented, like my Peanutbutter Hugs?”

“I’m not sure patents work the way you think they do. But yeah, I can teach you.”

Some thirty minutes later, Mr. Peanutbutter grins. “Well, Todd, good buddy, I think we did it! I guess you _can_ teach an old dog new tricks!”

Todd laughs. “Yeah, and we only had to destroy one lamp and a couple bookcases to do it!”

Mr. Peanutbutter rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, about that…listen, just don’t tell Dr. Maria, okay? I do _not_ want that getting charged to my copays!”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, this is all a dream anyway!”

Mr. Peanutbutter frowns. “Oh, right. Okay, so…I guess this is goodbye?”

Todd smiles. “Go get ‘em, buddy.”

He steps through the door, back to the hallway outside BoJack’s bathroom, and there’s the notebook costume, encasing his arms and legs. Yep, 2004. He staggers through the crowd to the living room, and there on the deck is his second wife, looking as young and lovely and happy as ever. And there’s BoJack, making his way straight towards her. 

He has an urge to yell a warning to her, but he knows that won’t work. He needs to go to her. And he knows how.

He takes a deep breath. _You can do this. 90 degrees sideways._ He spins so he’s facing the wall. Very carefully, he steps toward the door. He’s halfway through now, but it just feels so _wrong,_ this isn’t how doors work, so he turns back to face the direction he’s moving in, but oh no, now the sides of the notebook are hitting the doorframe and he’s stuck, dammit—

 _No,_ he tells himself. _Think of what Todd taught you._ He takes a few deep breaths and, very slowly, turns sideways again. Sure enough, the notebook comes free. He keeps shuffling sideways, a little more, a little more, and…he’s through!

And there’s Jessica, with a toilet-paper-enwrapped BoJack bearing down on her. Mr. Peanutbutter dashes across the deck as fast as his notebook-encumbered legs will carry him. Jessica screams as BoJack reaches for her, and just barely in time, Mr. Peanutbutter flings himself between his wife and the mummy.

“I don’t think so, BoJack! You stay away from my wife!”

BoJack stops short, gives him a weird look. “Uh…okay? What’s the big deal?”

“You mummies think you can just harass anyone you want! Well, not my wife! Not tonight!” He can hear Jessica gasp behind him, and he’s thrumming with adrenaline. 

BoJack, though, just shrugs. “Whatever, man. It was just a joke.” And he shambles away, as if nothing had ever happened.

That’s disappointing, but Jessica throws her arms around what little of him she can reach and gives him a kiss, and that makes it all worth it. “You saved me!” she says, breathless.

“Of course I did. I promised, didn’t I?”

“I knew I could count on you. Come on.” She leans in, as close as his costume will allow. “Let’s go home and get you out of that notebook.”

He grins. “If you insist.”

They’re halfway to the door when it hits again—the sudden, desperate need to use the bathroom. _Come on,_ he tries to tell J.D. _Can’t you let me have this?_ But no dice—if he doesn’t get to a bathroom immediately, there’s going to be a very bad situation in that notebook.

He makes his excuses and heads for the bathroom. He steps through to find—

—J.D. again.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just—I was expecting you to be someone else. I don’t know, someone else from my past.”

J.D. raises an eyebrow. “So sorry to disappoint you.” 

“Aw, no need to apologize! How could I be disappointed by my good buddy J.D. Salinger?” Mr. Peanutbutter takes the opportunity to do a few squats, trying to work out the kinks in his legs from being stuck in that notebook.

“Watch yourself there, kid,” J.D. says. “Alright, what are you still doing in here? Get back out there.”

“Already?”

“Sure, sure. Come on, this is the boring part.” J.D. waves a hand. “Get out there and find out what happened with wife number two. Let’s go, I’m falling asleep already.”

“Well—okay. See you soon.”

“No, you won’t. Bye.”

Mr. Peanutbutter doesn’t know what to make of that, but he leaves the office as instructed.

Back in the hall, he checks himself out: vampire costume. A _Twilight_ thing, maybe? The dulcet tones of Soulja Boy echo in from the living room…what is this, 2006? 2007? He can’t quite recall.

BoJack staggers past, costumeless as usual. “Wazzup, bitcheeees?!” a girl in a Juno costume yells at him.

“Fuck you! I hope you have a miscarriage!” BoJack yells back.

Mr. Peanutbutter winces. If _The BoJack Horseman Show_ is on people’s minds, it must be 2007. This was a bad Halloween the first time around, he recalls. His and Jessica’s marriage was in its death throes. She’d barely looked at him all evening.

BoJack turns to him. “I swear to God, if one more person says that to me—I blame you for this, y’know, for inviting all these _normals_ into my house.”

Mr. Peanutbutter laughs, peering around the dark room. “Sure thing, buddy…say, have you seen Jessica anywhere?”

“Who?”

“Uh, Jessica Biel? My wife?”

BoJack gives him a look. “Didn’t you guys get divorced, like, six months ago?”

Mr. Peanutbutter goes still. “What?”

“Not that I follow your personal life, but you did leave me like ten voicemails about it…”

Mr. Peanutbutter leans against the wall, shaken. How could this have happened? Divorced, six months ago? Almost a year _earlier_ than the first time around?

“You okay, buddy?” BoJack says, looking at him quizzically. “You need a drink? Hell, I need a drink. Come on.”

BoJack stumbles away. Mr. Peanutbutter lets him go. He looks down at his hand—no ring. He hadn’t even noticed.

He feels strangely—empty.

Not knowing what else to do, he pushes past the line for the bathroom and retreats inside.

Back in Dr. Maria’s office, he leans against the door with his eyes closed. Maybe whoever is in here with him will tell him what to do, because he sure doesn’t have any ideas. 

“Hey, Mr. Peanutbutter,” a voice says quietly, and his hearts springs to life, and his eyes fly open.

It’s her—Diane. Looking—well, she looks like she’s looked for a while now, since she started on the antidepressants, but God, she looks _good._ Happy.

“Diane,” he says softly. And she gives him a little smile, and he smiles back, his heart aching.

He can’t run over to her and give her a hug, he knows that. That’s definitely not acceptable to do with your therapist. Instead, he sits on the couch.

“How’s it going?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Diane, I keep trying, but nothing _works.”_

She nods. “Sorry about Jessica.”

“What _happened?_ I thought I made it _better.”_

“What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know, I…I guess maybe we were just never meant to be together.”

Diane nods. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” she says sardonically. “But: how does that make you feel?”

He laughs. “That’s the weird part, I don’t really feel sad, just sort of…empty. I don’t know why.”

“Maybe you never really wanted to be with her in the first place?” Her voice is so gentle, and she’s looking at him with such understanding. He tries to remember if he really wanted to be with Jessica, but that all seems to be fading from his mind very quickly.

“I guess not.”

“And what _do_ you want?”

“Oh. That’s easy,” Mr. Peanutbutter says, sitting up straight. “I want you.”

Diane’s face crumples. She buries her head in her hands and groans. “No, Mr. Peanutbutter…”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Diane—”

“You can’t say things like that, _please—”_

“I know, I know. I know.”

“I’m _married,_ Mr. Peanutbutter—”

“I know. And I’m happy for you. Really, I am.” He still doesn’t understand it, how he can be so happy for her, genuinely, and yet still miss her so much. But it’s true. She looks up at him, looking very serious, but not angry, at least.

“I loved your wedding, you know. It was beautiful. And I love seeing you like this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I just…I wish you could have been like this when we were together. You know. Happy.”

“Oh.” Diane picks up Dr. Maria’s pen and starts playing with it. He can see her ring glinting in the fluorescent light. “Well…I wish you had pushed me to do something about it. That’s what Guy did.”

“You never told me what was going on, though.”

Diane looks up. “But—you knew, on some level. Right?”

Mr. Peanutbutter squirms, uncomfortable with this line of conversation. Would he have admitted it to himself? Of course not. But did he know that Diane was unhappy? More than unhappy? “Yeah. I did.” He sighs. “But does that mean I’m responsible? That it was my job to fix you?”

Diane leans back in her chair, rubs a hand across her face. “Okay, first of all, I don’t need to be fixed. And no, you weren’t responsible for my happiness. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t anything you could have done.”

He takes a moment to parse those negatives, then gets up, suddenly excited. “So I _could_ have made it better. And now I _can._ ”

“Uh, what do you mean? Don’t—”

“Don’t worry, Diane, I know what to do. I’m gonna fix this.”

“I just said—”

But he doesn’t hear what she just said, because he’s through the door.

This time, he doesn’t have to listen to the music to figure out what year it is. It’s confirmed as soon as he gets to the living room; there’s only one year in which the HOLLYWOO sign overlapped with Erica having all her limbs. It’s 2015, as he knew it would be, because that’s the year it needs to be for him to do what he has to do.

He doesn’t need to look around for Diane. He’s got his phone in his pocket. All he needs is some privacy.

The deck is too crowded—BoJack is out there, officiating the final round of the costume contest. Instead, he makes for the front door.

“Hey, where are you going?” Princess Carolyn asks.

“Just getting some fresh air, P.C. Back in a jiffy!”

It’s a gorgeous night, just cool enough to be comfortable. He has the front driveway all to himself, with only faint sounds of the party filtering out from the deck.

He takes out the phone and scrolls to the right number. Heart pounding, he presses _call._

It rings and rings and rings. He prays she’ll pick up. Finally, just when he thinks it’s about to go to voicemail, there’s a click, and a muffled, “Mr. Peanutbutter?” comes down the line.

And God, her voice—compared to how she sounded just now, in the office, the difference is so obvious. How could he ever have missed how unhappy she was?

“Diane. Uh, how’s Cordovia?” he says, not knowing where to start.

There’s a pause. “It’s—it’s great. We’re doing great work.”

 _She’s not a bad liar,_ he thinks.

“Listen, Diane, there’s something I have to say. And you’re not going to like it.”

“Mr. Peanutbutter—”

“But I need you to stay with me, okay?”

“Um…”

That won’t do. “Diane, do you love me?”

“Of course.” There’s a slight pause before she says it, but he ignores that and pushes on.

“Then promise me you won’t hang up. Do you promise?”

She sighs. “Yeah. I promise.”

“Okay.” He takes a breath, tries to steady his voice. He knows this is all in the past, and the truth he’s about to say is old news, and yet, it still _hurts,_ to even think it, let alone to say it. But he has to say it, if he‘s going to fix this. “Diane…” His voice fails him. He tries again. “Diane—I—…I know you’re not in Cordovia.”

The silence is very long. He can’t even hear her breathing.

“Diane?” he tries. “Are you there?”

“Yeah—” she says, then her voice breaks. And then she starts crying. He stands there, phone pressed against his ear, listening to her cry, whimpering along with her, wishing beyond anything he could comfort her.

Finally, her sobs quiet a little. “Oh God, I’m—I’m so sorry,” she manages to get out. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I get it if you never want to see me again.”

“What? Diane, all I want is to see you again.”

She sniffles. “Thanks.”

He has an instinct to say, _and_ _there’s nothing wrong,_ but suppresses it. “Listen, Diane. I know…what’s been going on.” _How you’ve been living._ “And I think maybe you should get some help.”

“I’m not going on any pills.” Her voice is sullen.

“Hey, it’s not my job to figure out if that would help. And I’ll love you, no matter what you need. But I think you should at least talk to someone. Okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, after a time, very quietly. He releases his breath, relieved.

“Will you come home?”

“Yeah. I’ll come tonight.”

He smiles wide. “I can’t wait. I’m at the Halloween party, but I’ll leave right now—” That stops him short. “Hey. Wait a second. Wait just a damned second.”

“What?”

“You came home in, like, April. How are we having this conversation _tonight?_ And besides, if you’re still gone, shouldn’t you be crashing at BoJack’s house? But _I’m_ at BoJack’s house! How does any of this make sense?!”

Diane laughs. “Don’t ask me, it’s your hallucination. I’ll see you soon.” 

She hangs up, and Mr. Peanutbutter stands there, breathing in the cool night. He shakes his head to clear out the confusion. It doesn’t matter _how_ this is happening, the point is that he’s doing it. He’s making a second chance for himself. For them.

He turns to go back to the party, anticipation thrilling through him.

Princess Carolyn answers the door. “Where’d you get off to?” The box of screeners in her arms is labelled 2017.

He blinks. So he’s jumped forward again. When, exactly, did that happen? He doesn’t know, but he realizes he’s now wearing an Uncle Sam costume, and recalls that he’s in the thick of his campaign for governor right now.

“Just shaking hands and kissing babies, P.C. You know how it goes.”

“Babies? Why are there babies here?” she asks, but he ignores that, already looking for Diane. Not in the living room, not in the kitchen…he eventually spots her on the deck, in a corner by herself, gazing out over the railing. She’s dressed as the Statue of Liberty, and she looks…well, she looks like she’s been on meds, and his heart swells to see her. In the real world, this time was awful, he remembers. They were fighting all the time over his entirely reasonable position on fracking, and half the time she was waving a gun around. But maybe now things will be good. 

“Hello, m’Lady Liberty,” he says, sidling up beside her. “Having fun?”

“Oh, that’s me, the life of the party,” she says, but with a laugh, not harshly. For a few moments they just stand there, her admiring the view, and him admiring her. He has such an urge to take her in his arms and kiss her, green facepaint or no—it’s been so long since he’s been kissed, God, and she’s right here, and this Diane is still his wife, so why not? But something in him hesitates, thinking it would be wrong, somehow.

Diane turns to him. “Ready to go?”

That stops all thoughts of kissing in their tracks. “Go?” He looks around. People are hardly even drunk; it’s clear the party is barely getting going. “We only just got here.”

“Right, we put in our appearance, you said hi to everyone you need to say hi to, now we can go. That’s what we agreed on.”

 _“_ What? Do you _still_ not like parties?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “What are you talking about? No, I don’t like parties, and I never will. We’ve talked about this. Over and over. What’s going on?”

He groans, shakes his head. “No, I just thought you’d be—better by now.”

“Better?”

“I thought you’d like fun things again, otherwise what’s the point?”

She steps away from him. “Excuse me?”

“No, I just mean…” God, why is this happening? Why can’t he talk to her for five seconds without fighting, even now? “Dammit, you know what I mean!”

“Yeah, I think I do. You mean that you want me to be like your perfect wife you’ve made up in your head.”

“No, I—” Suddenly aware of the potential voters scattered across the deck, he throws them a smile and wave, then lowers his voice to an angry whisper. “I just want you to be happy and relaxed and content, so you’ll stay here with me instead of _leaving!”_ He knows that isn’t really fair—the Diane in front of him is just talking about leaving the party, not leaving _him,_ he knows that, but—still, he feels like he’s being abandoned all over again, he can’t help it.

Diane’s face goes hard. “This,” she gestures at herself. “Is about _me_ not feeling like shit. Not about doing whatever you want me to do, to make _you_ happy.” She takes a few slow breaths. “I’m getting a Cabradacabra home. You can stay. Do whatever you want to do. Have fun.”

 _“I won’t have fun without you!”_ he says, well aware that he’s acting much more upset than she is.

“I can’t be responsible for that,” she says, and the worst part is how _sad_ she looks when she says it. Like she knows what it really means.

And then she’s gone. And he’s alone. Again.

He turns and grips the railing of the bannister tight. _You’re in public,_ he tells himself. _You’re at a party. Don’t cry. Don’t cry!_

“Hey, man, what’s wrong with you? Come on, it’s a party!”

Mr. Peanutbutter turns to find a significantly drunk BoJack beside him, pressing a bottle of beer into his hands. He takes it and, without even thinking, flings it over the side of the balcony. He hears it shatter on the sidewalk below and relishes the sound.

BoJack backs up, eyes wide. “Whoa. What the hell?”

“Sorry,” Mr. Peanutbutter says. “I just…” He still feels unhinged, spinning, no idea what to do. “I thought she’d be _better_ now! I tried _everything!_ She’d go on meds and she’d figure things out, and then she’d like me and want to be with me and we’d _work!”_

BoJack looks at him for a while, then shakes his head. “God, you really have no idea, do you? She _is_ figuring things out.”

“What?”

“She’s figuring out that she doesn’t want to be with you. She never should have been with you in the first place. She’s just finally not afraid to admit it.”

Mr. Peanutbutter can hear his own breathing, loud and fast and unsteady. “What, has she _told_ you that?”

BoJack shrugs, takes a swig of his beer. “She didn’t have to. I know her better than you think. Better than you do.”

He’s seized with an urge to punch BoJack right then and there, wipe that smug smile off his face. But his future voters are here, so he restrains himself, barely. “God, BoJack, just shut up. Don’t fucking try to ruin my personal life—”

BoJack laughs. “When have I ever done that? I don’t give a shit about your personal life.”

“Oh, yes you have.” As he says it, he realizes how true it is. “In ’93, you did a shitty job talking to Katrina and abandoned her to Ben Stein. In ’04, you traumatized Jessica with your stupid mummy antics. In ’07, you were rude to Diane when all she wanted to do was introduce herself to you.” _And you were mean to Pickles and made her feel like she didn’t belong here,_ he almost says, then catches himself. “And…and I bet you’ll be mean to my next girlfriend too! God, it’s _you,_ it’s always been you. I don’t know why I put up with you.”

BoJack looks at him, wavers a little on his feet, catches himself on the railing. “You’re so full of shit—”

“Am I?” he spits. “Well, don’t worry, you’re not going to have to put up with me or my shit anymore. I’m not going to let you keep ruining my life. This is the last Halloween party at your house, and I’m not inviting you next year, either.” He takes a breath, swallows hard. He didn’t even intend to say that, it just came out, but—maybe he doesn’t regret it. It feels like he’s _doing_ something, at least. Making some kind of change. “Happy now?”

But BoJack doesn’t look happy. He looks…what? Scared? Panicked? How could that be, though? “No, Mr. Peanutbutter, wait,” he starts, but Mr. Peanutbutter shushes him when a rabbit in a Wonder Woman costume passes by.

“Hi there, happy Halloween!” he says brightly. “Don’t forget to vote Peanutbutter!”

When she’s safely out of earshot, he turns back to BoJack. He’s looking at him the way Mr. Peanutbutter would expect, now. Hard, angry, dismissive. “Do you _really_ think it’s all my fault?”

He stares at him, and Mr. Peanutbutter doesn’t know, he just knows that this _hurts,_ and Diane is gone, _again,_ and BoJack is here. 

“Your relationships all fall apart because of _me?”_ BoJack continues, acid in his voice. _“Really?_ ”

And just like that, the anger drains right out of him, transformed into defeat.

He sighs, deflated. “No, it’s…it’s me. I know. It’s my fault. Sorry.”

“That’s what I thought.”

BoJack gives him a look he can’t read, and then is gone. Mr. Peanutbutter stands there, looking at all the happy partygoers around him, wondering how they can feel so far away. Like they’re on another planet from him.

He could try to go home to Diane, patch things up, but he knows there’s no use. He’s screwed up this chance already.

Having no idea what else to do, he retreats to the bathroom.

In Dr. Maria’s office, he collapses onto the couch, not even caring to look who is with him this time.

“You gotta get your shit together!”

His eyes fly open. Princess Carolyn is standing over him, wagging a finger in his face.

“So you had to spend some time alone. So what? Are you going to let that destroy you? I don’t think so. You are Mister goddamn Peanutbutter. TV star, bestselling author, Nobel prize in television winner. You are a goddamn American treasure. And you know what else you are? _My top-earning client._

“So here’s what you’re gonna do: You are going to put your big-boy pants on, figure out what’s gone wrong and how to fix it, and go out there and put your life back together. Alright?”

He considers. Strange to say, he does feel better, a little. He smiles weakly. “Alright. There’s nothing like a Princess Carolyn pep talk to get you going. Thanks.”

Princess Carolyn smiles, looking for all the world like she ate the canary. “Don’t mention it.”

“But—how am I going to fix things? That’s what I’ve been trying to do all night, and all I’ve done is fail, over and over.”

Princess Carolyn goes and sits behind the desk. “Well, what exactly are you trying to fix?”

“I’m trying to not be alone.”

“Right, and how are you going about that?”

“By getting one of my relationships to last. It isn’t working, though, they just keep falling apart. Princess Carolyn, you found love late in life. How did you do it? And how did you get by all those years without it?”

 _“Late?_ Listen, I—” She shakes her head. “Never mind. Not the point. Look, I didn’t _do_ anything to find Judah. It just happened, because it was the right time. And before that…I spent years trying to find the right relationship, and it failed, over and over. Finally, I realized: I couldn’t stake my happiness on finding the right man. I had to figure out how to be happy on my own.”

“And how did you do that?”

“Ruthie.”

Mr. Peanutbutter frowns. “I’ve never wanted kids, though.”

“No, it’s—it’s not about having a kid, specifically. It’s that I thought about what I wanted in my life, outside of a relationship, and I prioritized that. So then I had someone who was important to me, something to care about, even when I was single.”

Apparently finished, Princess Carolyn takes out her phone and starts typing away.

“Huh,” Mr. Peanutbutter says, considering what she’s said. “So I have to find—”

“Oh, fish!” Princess Carolyn jumps up, frantically typing as she gathers her things. “Look at the time! I’m supposed to pick up Ruthie in ten minutes!”

“What? Aren’t you a figment of my imagination? How can you have commitments outside of me?”

“No time to explain, gotta go! Best of luck!”

“But what about—”

But she’s already out the door.

He sits there, considering the empty office. “What am I supposed to do now?” he asks the silence, but no one answers.

Then the door to the office flies open, and Mr. Peanutbutter yelps in surprise.

“Don’t forget about Pickles!”

He smiles to see her, relaxing. “Oh, hi Pickles. Where did you come from?”

“Hi, Mister! Jeez, I dunno, I’m just here, I guess.” She sits behind the desk as if she belongs there. “How’s it going?”

“Well, I’m currently trapped in an unending dreamscape in which I’m trying to fix my past mistakes but only end up getting myself into situations that are just as bad, if not worse, with no visible way out. But other than that, not bad. How are you? How’s Joey?”

“Great! He’s—” She frowns. “Hang on, is it weird to tell my ex-fiancé about my boyfriend?”

Mr. Peanutbutter shrugs. “I don’t see why it would be.”

“Okay! In that case…” And she launches into an extended monologue about herself and Joey and the various trials and tribulations of running a mega pop star’s social media. Mr. Peanutbutter just sits back and takes it in.

Listening to her go on, her ears bouncing with excitement, he suddenly feels very old. Not in a bad way, though, which surprises him more than anything. It’s kind of nice, actually. He doesn’t feel like he needs to keep up with her or keep her interested or prove anything. He can just relax and bask in the glow of her youthful energy.

Finally, she runs out of steam. “…and that’s why Tweed Feed is even deader than Insta. Oh. Am I talking too much?” Her face takes on that cute, confused look she gets when she’s thinking seriously. “I’m supposed to be your therapist, right? Maybe I’m not supposed to talk so much. Sorry, I don’t really know how this works. Hang on, I can look it up—Siri, how do I be a good therapist for my ex-fiancé—”

Mr. Peanutbutter laughs. “It’s okay, Pickles. Just…ask me some questions, I guess.” 

“Okay…so what have you been doing? In this dream sequence time loop thing?”

“Well, I think I’m supposed to make it so I’m not alone. So I’ve been trying to fix things with each of my exes. It doesn’t work, though. If anything, it just makes things worse.”

“Oh. Hmm. What about me? Maybe you need to fix something with me?”

Mr. Peanutbutter starts. Maybe it says something that he hadn’t even considered that. “Huh. Maybe. But what?”

“I don’t know.” Pickles looks down. “Is there…something you think should be fixed? Between us?”

He thinks about it. “I don’t know, Pickles. It seems to me like you’re pretty happy now, right?”

She smiles. “Yeah, Mister. I’m really happy.”

And he realizes he’s happy to hear that. It’s not mixed with jealousy or regret or longing, like with Diane. He’s just unambiguously happy for her.

“Good. So...obviously I wish I hadn’t cheated on you. But even if I hadn’t…I think maybe the way things turned out is for the best.”

She looks at him, her eyes big and serious. “I think you’re right.”

“So…I don’t think it’s about fixing something with you. I really don’t. Actually, I don’t think it’s about anything in the past at all.” 

“So then what is it?”

He thinks about what Princess Carolyn said. “I think, maybe I need to stop trying to make relationships work. I have to figure out something else to care about.” He laughs a little. “You know what? It’s actually kind of a relief. Like, I don’t have to try to force something anymore, when it isn’t going to work anyway.”

“Okay, so then what else is there?”

He frowns. “What else is there for me to care about? My career, I guess. That’s not a problem, though. I mean, I’ll be set with _Birthday Dad_ for years. And I don’t have a Ruthie, nor do I want one.”

“A who?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. But what does that leave me?”

“Well, what do you _want?”_

The last time that question came up, it was a disaster. But now—to his surprise, his instinct isn’t to say _Diane._ Not just because he isn’t stupid enough to say that to Pickles. But because…it just seems obvious, now, that that part of his life is over.

He looks up at Pickles. “I don’t want to be alone. At that party. Or ever. That’s how all this started. But how can I not be alone, without a wife or girlfriend?”

“Hmm. Well, I’m never _really_ alone, you know? Because of the Pickle Pack. Maybe that’s what you need? A Peanutbutter Pack!”

Mr. Peanutbutter tries to imagine himself telling an army of Twitter followers about his problems. He smiles. “I don’t think so, Pickles. I might have learned a few new tricks, but I think I’m still too old a dog for that.”

She frowns. “Okay, I really think you’re missing out, though. But fine. Then what other option do you have?”

“I don’t know.” He thinks about it as hard as he can. “Is there anything else that makes you not feel alone? Besides the Pickle Pack, and Joey?”

“Well, there’s Ilana and Ilana, of course.”

Mr. Peanutbutter sits up straight. “Oh.”

“Yeah. They’re always there for me. Well, not always, actually a lot of the time they’re kind of the worst—don’t tell them I said that! But still, when I _really_ need them, they’re there for me, you know? And they always have been, since, like, forever. Before Joey, before you, before everything else, I’ve always had the Ilanas.”

And that, finally, makes sense. “Oh my God, Pickles, am I the classic _Mr. Peanutbutter’s House_ episode ‘The Longest Halloween Ever’? Because the true meaning of Halloween is friendship!”

“Huh, I thought the true meaning of Halloween was super-cute couples costumes that perfectly encapsulated and promoted your brand, but your thing sounds good too.”

He nods, not really listening. “Right, right…but how do I fix a friendship? How have you kept things going with the Ilanas for so long?”

Pickles gets that cute thinking-really-hard face again. “Hmm. Well, we just know each other really well. I guess we just _listen_ to each other, you know? Actually, do you know what it’s like? It’s like when you told me to go with Joey on his tour.”

“Huh? How’s that?”

“Because you knew. Before I did, even. You figured out what I needed, and you made it happen. Even though it wasn’t what you really wanted.” 

And that’s—God, that’s _it._ And it feels so obvious now, like it was right in front of him the whole time, like he should have known all along. But he couldn’t have, of course.

He stands. “Bye, Pickles.”

“What? Where are you going?”

“To fix things.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, bye.” She gets up and gives him a hug, and it feels nice, not awkward or tension-filled, just…nice.

He smiles at her. “Good luck with the TikTok channel. And…thanks.”

“Sure thing, Mister.”

And he steps through the door one last time.

He knows what year it will be, but looks down at himself to check anyway, and sure enough: his _Mister Peanutbutter’s House_ shirt, phone in his pocket. He feels his head gently, and yep, there’s a tender spot swelling up on his forehead.

He smiles. He’s back in his own home. This is it. The present.

He makes his way to the living room, where the party is grooving along. Music, chatter. Still no dancing, though.

No matter. That’s not what he cares about now.

BoJack is right there, chatting with the _Birthday Dad_ best boy. He starts when he sees him. “Hey, man. You okay? You hit your head pretty good there.”

Mr. Peanutbutter smiles. “I’m great, BoJack. Best I’ve been in a while. Listen, there’s something I need to do.”

“Oh God, I am _not_ dancing with you, don’t even try it.”

Ignoring that, he takes a deep breath. “Speakers, off!” he yells.

The music screeches to a halt. It’s dark and quiet. “Lights, on!” he says into the silence, before anyone can protest.

The lights come on, bright and harsh. Everyone is staring at him, but he ignores that. What matters now is BoJack, who is standing there, staring at him, baffled.

“BoJack…” he says, loud and clear, not embarrassed for anyone to hear it. “I’m sorry. I know you hate this party. You’ve told me that over and over, and I never listened. I never should have made you host it every year. Well, it’s over now. I’m not gonna make you deal with it anymore.” He turns to his guests. “Sorry, everyone. Party’s over. You can go home. Happy Halloween.”

For a few moments, it’s quiet. Then Lenny shrugs, says, “Fine. I’m pooped anyway.” And then everyone is muttering to themselves, gathering up their things, making for the door. A few ants seem to be grabbing all the snacks they can get their hands on to take home. Good for them, Mr. Peanutbutter thinks.

He looks at BoJack, expecting him to be relieved or maybe, maybe, even grateful. But he’s still frozen. Mr. Peanutbutter can’t tell what’s going through his mind.

Finally, when Lenny has almost made it to the door, BoJack shakes his head. “Wait,” he says. “No.” His voice is…strange. Quiet. Uncertain, somehow.

It’s pure New BoJack.

Mr. Peanutbutter swallows hard. “BoJack?”

“I—I don’t hate this party,” BoJack says, looking him right in the eyes. “I don’t. I mean, sometimes I do, but—not really, you know? And—I don’t want it to end. Please, guys.” He turns to address the crowd. “Stay.”

People are looking at each other uneasily, shrugging, wavering between leaving and staying. Even Pedro Pascal is frozen at the door, and he had been beating a hasty retreat, for some reason.

Mr. Peanutbutter doesn’t really understand what’s going on, but—if BoJack wants the party to continue, it better continue. He can’t very well beg people not to leave his own party right after he’s told them it’s over, though, so he shoots a desperate look at Princess Carolyn, who gets his meaning right away.

“Aw, fine, you twisted our arms!” she says, heading back to the bar and pouring herself a soda. No one wants to defy the best manager in the biz, so it seems that that settles it. The crowd drifts back into the living room, the ants replace the snacks bundled under their arms.

No one turns the lights or the music back on, though, because it looks like BoJack still has more to say. He takes a deep breath. “And—thank you. For doing it every year. And for…it’s good to have something that doesn’t change. Even when everything else does.”

Now Mr. Peanutbutter is just confused. “But…I thought changing is good. Aren’t you trying to change?” He gestures at the soda in BoJack’s hand.

“Well, yeah, but…it’s like the sign, maybe. The things that were good all along don’t have to change, you know?”

And _that—_ that’s everything Mr. Peanutbutter could have hoped to hear, and more. He can’t stop the grin spreading across his face. “Okay. Sounds good. And, thanks.”

BoJack doesn’t say _you’re welcome,_ but he doesn’t roll his eyes or brush it off, either, and that’s something.

“Now come on,” BoJack says, flinging his arms out. “Let’s party like it’s 1993!”

 _Oh God, anything but that,_ Mr. Peanutbutter thinks. But he says, “Speakers, on! Lights, off!” and goes to join his best friend.

And he can’t quite tell if it’s coming from deep inside his own mind, or from far off in the distance, but somehow, he hears laughter that sounds distinctly like J.D. Salinger.

**Author's Note:**

> The going through a door sideways thing is a reference to this behavior of dogs: https://www.huffpost.com/entry/dogs-vs-physics-canines-who-cant-get-their-sticks-through-doors_n_5b55bf2de4b086f60991ad05


End file.
